Lucky
by emergencycaptivation
Summary: Tate likes when Violet sleeps, and there's also something about her underwear.


**Okay, so this takes place, at, a time. I don't really know when. I like to pretend the last two episodes never happened. Thanks for reading.**

Violet was sleeping, and Tate was watching her. She was on her side, facing Tate, curled into a tiny ball, her sweet face the only thing peeking out of the blanket. Tate knew that underneath those blankets, Violet was only wearing a big t shirt and a cute pair of underwear. He liked that about Violet. No matter how slouchy and cold she was on the outside, her underwear was always modest, pale colors with real waistbands, because she had no use for frilly fancy things under all those layers. Not that Tate was supposed to know about Violet's undergarments. But watching her was addicting.

Tate settled back into the armchair by Violet's bed, trying not to think too much about what Violet was-or wasn't-wearing under the covers. In her sleep, Violet rolled onto her back, moaning quietly. Tate could just see movement under the blanket; something (her hand?) was moving down her body, settling on the split between her legs. Tate leaned forward eagerly. She was still asleep, he was sure of it.

As her hand started moving between her legs, Violet's cheeks sucked in and she whimpered. Tate's dick twitched and his hand instinctively flew to his crotch. On the bed, Violet woke suddenly, her eyes staring at the ceiling for an intense moment before clenching tightly. The movement under the covers picked up speed and she gasped, her back arching. Her body relaxed and Tate sat on his hands to keep from ripping his pants open. Violet's head fell to the side and her eyes opened a bit, just enough to see the boy in her room.

She scrambled backwards, almost falling off the bed, pulling her blanket to her chest.

"Tate, what the fuck? Were you watching me sleep?"

"You were doing more than sleep." Violet turned scarlet.

"Get out," she spat. Tate waited for her to smile, make a joke. "Tate, get out." She definitely wasn't joking.

"No, Violet, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been watching you, you're just so peaceful while you sleep. It's nice, I like it. Please don't make me leave."

Violet looked at the door, back to Tate, then down at her hands, fisted in blanket. Her face was still flushed from touching herself, and Tate could see a wet patch on her lip, glistening cutely. How could a patch of spit be cute?

Tate stood slowly and sat on the edge of the bed. Violet didn't scream, so he took a risk.

"What were you dreaming about?"

Violet immediately buried her face in her knees, shaking her head furiously.

"Please, Violet?"

"Us. I was dreaming about us. Fucking." With that word, Violet locked eyes with Tate, showing none of her previous anger or embarrassment.

What Tate saw in her expression was pure sex; a sleepy, wet, already turned on teenage girl. Throwing the blanket aside, Violet lunged for Tate, and he met her halfway, their lips instantly together. Violet's warm crotch was pressed right against Tate's leg, and he could feel it through his jeans.

"Tell me more about it," Tate rasped against Violet's neck.

"We were in the attic," Violet began, pulling Tate's sweater over his head. "You laid a blanket down, and we had been playing chess. But then you kissed me." Tate stood up and quickly opened his jeans, kicking them away. Violet's tiny hands slid his boxers down his thighs, and Tate liked how her fingers looked against his bare chest.

"You kissed me," Violet was saying, but she had her shirt off and suddenly Tate didn't care much about her dream. "And suddenly we were naked and our skin was just burning up and you pushed me down and kneeled between my legs." Taking that as an invitation, Tate climbed back onto the bed and pushed Violet back, sliding off her cute underwear.

Taking Tate's rough hand in her soft one, she slid it down between her breasts, saying, "You brought your hand to my cunt, and you fingers left bloody scratches down my body. They didn't hurt. They felt so good."

Tate looked down at the beautiful girl twisted beneath him. It was his Violet, who wore big sweaters and modest, little girl underwear, but she was so different, as if something had come over her. If she wasn't already dead, Tate would have worried about the house getting to her. She was wild.

His hand reached the hot mound of flesh between her legs, and Violet moaned as his fingers slipped through the soaking folds. Tate couldn't believe how wet she was; couldn't believe that thinking of him-shot up, psychotic, stalking, him-had gotten her this way.

He slipped two fingers into her, just because he could, and because Violet wasn't talking anymore, her dream forgotten. Tate, for once, was glad he was dead, because he wouldn't have met Violet otherwise. But he was thinking too much and Violet's back was arching and she was begging him to fuck her. He eagerly moved on top of her, and her little hand guided him inside, and Tate thought she would be in pain because she was so tight around his dick be she wrapped her legs around him and she was _so fucking wet._

Tate began a slow rhythm, trying to hold back.

"Do you ever dream anymore?" Violet asked him quietly.

"Not really. But if I did, I would dream of you. I'm sure of it."

Violet kissed him sweetly, her breath shuddering into his mouth as her limbs got looser around him.

He pulled away to watch her, her head falling back and her fingers clutching the sheets and her mouth making a little 'o.' Then she was clenching around his dick and he ground his hips into hers, pushing against her clit, and she got every last spasm she could.

Breathing hard, Violet relaxed and Tate picked up speed, desperate. Despite her fatigue Violet was meeting his thrusts and he was close. Violet opened her eyes and turned her head, focusing on the black painted rose on her bed side table. The corner of her mouth lifted into a smile.

Tate remembered the night he gave her that flower, and the feeling of her delicate hand on his crotch and this is it, this is it, this is it, and Tate thinks this is the closest he'll ever get to feeling alive, because he's dead and Violet's dead but they love each other and what more do you need?

Tate collapsed on top of Violet and she toyed with a lock of his hair.

"How did you dream end?" he murmured, planting a kiss on the pale skin covering her ribs.

"Just like this," she replied, "but we fell asleep and dreamed of each other."

"How do you know?"

"You're all I dream about anymore. Why wouldn't you dream about me?"

Tate didn't say anything, but looking up at her, flushed and sleepy, he thought his chest might burst, because he actually got to spend the rest of his life-no, forever-with this girl, and after so much _shit_ this house had given him, he finally got this angel, and he couldn't imagine how he had gotten so lucky.


End file.
